


Pie and Prejudice

by birlcholtz (justwhatialwayswanted)



Series: Pie and Prejudice [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Figure Skater Eric "Bitty" Bittle, Kegsters, Multi, canon-typical alcohol use, handwaving in the direction of accurate character ages, i mean... i could probably argue it in both ways?, more relationships to be added later bc sPOILERS, probably more members of smh will be in here as well, this is neither pro parse nor anti parse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwhatialwayswanted/pseuds/birlcholtz
Summary: "'It is a truth universally acknowledged that Samwell athletes are the gayest of the gay,'" Nursey reads aloud.Holster snorts. "Thanks. We try."(AKA the Pride and Prejudice AU I've been threatening on Tumblr for months.)*Updates are very slow but still coming!*
Relationships: Adam "Holster" Birkholtz/Justin "Ransom" Oluransi, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, background nurseydex - Relationship
Series: Pie and Prejudice [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706146
Comments: 131
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've fucked around with characters' ages and years a little in this (mostly because I was trying to figure out how to get like... 5+ classes' worth of SMH in here). Here's what's going on:  
> Seniors: Jack, Shitty, Johnson, Lardo  
> Juniors: Holster, Ransom, Chowder, Nursey, Dex  
> Sophomores: Ford, Tango, Whiskey  
> First-years: Bitty (spent a few years as a pro skater, so he's Ransom and Holster's age), Shruti
> 
> Bitty spent a few years as a pro skater, so he's Ransom's age (as you know if you've read Olympic Friend-Making). And Jack is Shitty's age (it's covered pretty much immediately in this chapter, but he didn't do juniors or go in the draft).

Jack can almost feel the clock ticking down on his last Samwell preseason.

It's funny, really. When he was fourteen, he would have sworn that by now he would be in his third or fourth year in the NHL. When he was fifteen, and he'd finally admitted to his parents how alone and awful he felt all the time, he hadn't anticipated his life changing course. And for years he'd resented his therapist and his parents for not letting him go in the draft, or even to juniors, because college had just seemed like an expensive four-year delay.

But now, sitting in Commons with his team at breakfast, he wishes he could have some more time here. Holster, at the end of the table, has an unsettling amount of hard-boiled eggs, Shitty is only looking a little murderously at his LSAT prep book on Jack's left, and Jack can tell Chowder, directly to his right, is bouncing his leg to whatever song is playing in his headphones. It's just like any other team breakfast, at least five people talking at once and some truly bad dietary choices, which is kind of why he loves it. Samwell has become a place he loves, not just a place he's passing through. 

And Jack regrets not realizing that in his very first year. But he does have a full year left with these people, and he's going to try to make the most of it. 

"Yo, the Swallow is trying to get poetic again," Nursey says loudly, mostly for Chowder's benefit (he pulls his phone out and pauses his music) but also to the table at large.

"I didn't know you wrote for them," Dex responds without looking up from his calculus textbook. Jack honestly has no idea why they always sit next to each other at team meals, unless it's just to chirp each other mercilessly. 

Actually, that would make sense. Jack is pretty sure chirping is the only way they know how to get along.

"Dexy, shut your mouth and listen to this weird, quasi-intellectual opening. 'It is a truth universally acknowledged that Samwell athletes are the gayest of the gay,'" Nursey reads aloud. 

Holster snorts. "Thanks. We try."

Nursey shrugs at him. "I mean, it's probably true, but also... what?"

"Isn't that a book quote?" Tango asks.

"Jane Austen probably didn't have any opinion about the relative gayness of American college athletes," Shitty says without looking up from his prep book. "Although, I mean, who knows? She could have been ahead of her time."

"It's a metatextual reference," Johnson replies to Tango. "Since this alternate universe is based on that book. The author thought it would be amusing to tweak the famous opening line to fit our storyline better."

"Nobody's awake enough for that, Johnson," Dex mutters, glancing back and forth between his textbook and whatever he's got in his notebook. Nursey nudges his own coffee mug over towards Dex's elbow, which Jack is pretty sure is going to result in a shoving battle and spilled coffee everywhere, but then Dex just takes a sip and hands it back. Disaster averted.

Tango, apparently, feels particularly awake this morning. "Alternate universe from what? What author?"

" _ Seriously," _ Nursey says loudly as Johnson starts explaining... something about different timelines to Tango. "Okay, like, the beginning of the article is weird, but it's about Eric Bittle."

"Why is the Swallow writing about him?" Jack asks. He knows who Eric Bittle is— his family makes sure to watch Olympic figure skating and ice dancing every four years, just to watch an ice sport that isn't violent, and anyone who's watched an international figure skating competition in the past few years knows Eric Bittle. He'd gone from an obscure Juniors champion to a household name almost overnight when he medalled silver at his first Olympic Games. Reporters fawn over him for his cheerful attitude and Southern accent. They also fawn over him for his passive-aggressive chirping of homophobes on Twitter.

Nursey pauses for an appropriately dramatic period of time before saying, "Because he's  _ coming to Samwell this year." _

"Wow!" Chowder says.

_ "Bro," _ Holster says.

"He  _ what?" _ Whiskey asks. Up until that moment, Jack hadn't even been sure Whiskey was listening. He's got earbuds in and has been texting someone for all of breakfast. (Jack would like to think it's one of his friends from high school, or maybe a family member. But a larger part of him suspects it's someone from the lacrosse team. Within two days of arriving on campus for the first time, Whiskey had befriended the guy across the hall who had also moved in early for preseason, and for the rest of the year the hockey team had had to deal with him hanging out with the lax bros all the time. It stung Jack's pride a bit, but he's confident they'll bring Whiskey back into the hockey fold in time. Maybe he's grown out of the whole lax bro thing now that he's a sophomore. Maybe.)

Tango, who's been freed from Johnson's early morning existential tirades by Nursey's announcement, jumps in again. "Wait, isn't he pro? Why would he go to college?"

"Why would he go to  _ Samwell? _ " Whiskey adds. "And yeah, Tango, he's been pro for a few years already. That's a hell of a gap year. Gap  _ years." _

"Hang on, I'm reading it," Nursey says, and they all wait for a few seconds before he says, "Uh, it doesn't say why? There's a lot of speculation, mostly stuff about him being gay and Samwell's 'one in four, maybe more,' and I honestly can't tell if they're being serious about that. But they've got a photo of him moving in, he's definitely here. Ahead of orientation, too."

"That's so cool!" Chowder says. "He'll probably be practicing at Faber, right?"

Nursey nods. "Probably. I bet we meet him at some point."

"Oh, yeah, I showed him where to sharpen his skates this morning," Dex says, and takes another sip of Nursey's coffee (by now Jack is wondering if it's actually Dex's and Nursey stole it, except it's clearly got milk in it, which Dex usually doesn't go for). When a hush falls over the table, he looks up from writing something in his notebook and adds, "He was nice. Short."

There's a brief silence before Nursey breaks it with, "You  _ knew _ and you didn't tell me?" He drapes himself dramatically over Dex's shoulders, and Dex neatly slides the coffee mug in the opposite direction of Nursey's arms. "Dex, I thought we were  _ bros." _

"I don't know what to tell you."

"Tell me we're bros."

"We're bros?"

"Say it like you mean it, Dexy."

Dex heaves a sigh that does nothing to dislodge Nursey's arms from his shoulders, but Jack, sitting directly across from him, can see him fighting a smile. "We're bros."

Nursey sniffs and pats Dex's cheek. "If only. Now that you've concealed this from me, I don't know if I can ever even speak to you again."

"You've been speaking to me this whole time."

"Not anymore. I'm going to replace you with Eric Bittle. He would never betray me like this."

"You have nothing to base that assumption on."

" _ You _ said he was nice. When you met him. And didn't tell anyone. Including your favorite d-partner. Remember that?"

Dex just rolls his eyes and flips a page in his calc textbook.

"Dex, you should introduce us," Holster says. "Or, like, invite him to a kegster or something. Ice sports gotta stick together."

"That would be cool!" Chowder agrees. "And how often do we get to meet Olympic athletes? Plus, he needs to find friends  _ somewhere. _ Samwell's a big place. We should be his friends."

"Dex is already his friend,  _ apparently," _ Nursey says, and steals Dex's pencil.

"Samwell's not that big," Dex points out as he snatches it back. "It's not like he's going to get lost in the crowd."

"It's still a university! There's a ton of people everywhere and he might feel overwhelmed when all the non-athletes get here and we should make friends with him before the lax bros do." That might be a subtle dig at Whiskey, but Jack doubts it— if it is, the effect is somewhat ruined by Chowder facing completely away from Whiskey so he can talk to Nursey and Dex. (At this point, Nursey has taken the pencil again and is drawing something on Dex's notes, and Dex seems to have resigned himself to his fate.)

"You mean we should make friends with him before the lax bros start being their usual bigoted cockhole toxic selves to him," Shitty declares. Jack glimpses Whiskey rolling his eyes, more of a glance toward the ceiling than anything, but he doesn't say anything about the lax bros, and Shitty continues, "I fully agree. Let's claim Eric Bittle."

"You need to make friends with him first," Dex says.

"Oh, no, you're doing it with us," Nursey tells him, and tries to poke him on what Jack can only assume was supposed to be his nose, but Nursey's got his head on Dex's shoulder and can't really see Dex's face, so his finger kind of winds up poking at Dex's jaw. It's emphatic, though. "You're the one with an in."

Dex sighs. "Fine. If I see him again for some reason, I will tell him that all of you want to be friends with him. And that you've claimed him so the lax bros can't get to him. That won't be weird at all."

_ "Victory," _ Nursey whispers. He doesn't protest when Dex takes the pencil back.

"Seriously, invite him to a kegster," Holster says. "It'll be boss."

"Nobody says boss anymore," Shitty says.

"They don't?" Tango asks.

"Tango, when is the last time you heard someone say 'boss'?"

"You just did. Twice. More than Holster did, actually."

Shitty stares down the table at him for a second, and then says, "I hate that you're right," and goes back to his LSAT book.

Jack doesn't stay at breakfast for very long after that. Not for any particular reason— he's just done with his food and wants to enjoy the quiet on campus that always accompanies preseason for a little bit. Maybe grab a book and head out to the Reading Room, maybe go to the lake. He doesn't have a strong opinion either way.

The quad is pretty empty, although Jack sees a couple people from the women's volleyball team stretched out on a picnic blanket. One of them waves. He thinks it's March, the captain— she's nice, Chowder inviting the entire women's volleyball team to the Haus for kegsters means that Jack has met most of its members. He waves back, and she goes back to chatting with whoever she's with.

It's odd. Samwell feels like home, like a soft old t-shirt, warm and sun-washed. But Jack can't help but glance around for anything out of the ordinary. If Nursey hadn't announced that a pro athlete was suddenly attending Samwell, he's sure he wouldn't have noticed anything different, but now the campus is humming with possibility. Jack is no stranger to seeing family friends (and his parents) on TV, but Eric Bittle feels... different. He's young, for one thing. And not connected at all with the Zimmermanns, or Jack knows for sure they would have met by now. And he just seems so bright and outgoing in interviews that Jack feels like his presence should be changing the familiar campus.

It's not, really, but he feels like it should.

On the other hand, it's Jack's last year, and what he really wants is to finish his thesis, win the national championship (they had  _ almost _ made it to the Frozen Four last year, and Jack's mouth had felt sour with the nearness of it), and graduate peacefully. Three steps to finishing his time at Samwell exactly the way he wants to. A figure skating star might shake things up, which is not what Jack wants. Especially if his team is bound and determined to befriend him.

Maybe Eric Bittle won't shake things up. Maybe he can fit into the calm routine Jack has built himself over the years, after the novelty has worn off and Chowder and Shitty have battled the lax bros to their hearts' content. That would be ideal. Unlikely, but ideal.

He'll settle for 'shakes things up far away from Jack'. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jack will never understand why, exactly, they have to throw so many kegsters.

Sure, he understands that Holster enjoys partying, and more importantly, that he enjoys partying enough to send Facebook invites to everyone at Samwell, and that Shitty enjoys partying enough to help him host the party and mostly organize cleanup afterwards, and as a result, Jack doesn't actually need to do anything and kegsters will happen. Kegsters are a fact of life. 

He just doesn't understand why they're having one  _ now. _

"It's the end of the fucking first week of classes, dude," Holster is saying to him for the hundredth time. "We  _ survived." _

"We read some syllabi and only got actual assignments from the professors who are trying to get people to drop," Jack points out.

"We survived," Holster insists.

"We chose our classes," Chowder points out. "That's a milestone. Even if Tango's going to be switching things around until five seconds before the add/drop deadline."

"And it's for clout," Nursey adds. "Also, so Shitty will stop studying for the LSAT."

Jack considers it. Shitty  _ has _ been burying his nose in that book since three days into preseason. "Okay. That makes sense."

Nursey fist pumps as Holster says, "Wow, so you care about Shitty's emotional health but not mine?" 

But he punches Jack in the arm as he says it, which means he isn't serious. Because if he was, it would hurt.

"You didn't need my permission."

"No, we didn't," Holster agrees serenely. "But I thought you would want a warning."

So, obviously, Jack forgets.

He doesn't forget for  _ long. _ But he'd stolen their tortilla chips from the kitchen because he wanted a snack while he started on some reading, and before he'd had a chance to return the bag to the kitchen, he'd heard the music start, loud enough that he can feel the bass pounding even on the second story. A glance at his phone had confirmed that it was ten PM.

Ugh.

He might as well go put the chips back in the kitchen, then come back and watch a movie or something. No more reading is going to happen with the sounds of music and chatter floating up the stairs, and it's getting pretty late anyway.

He sighs, stands up, grabs his keys, and makes sure that his door is locked before he heads downstairs. Jack is tall enough and big enough that he can shoulder his way through kegster crowds, so it should be pretty simple to just get in and out, and maybe check in with Shitty and make sure he's not going overboard in an attempt to forget about law school.

When he gets to the top of the stairs, he breathes a small sigh of relief— the Haus is pretty full, but it's nowhere near as full as it was at Epikegster last year. They've never come close to recreating that feat.

Nursey and Dex are at the landing, and they're doing something that seems to involve a lot of wrestling, and when Jack passes, Dex looks up and says, "Jack, tell Nursey that bannister isn't safe to slide down even when he's not sloshed." Nursey tries to take advantage of his distraction to make a break for it, but he's clearly underestimated Dex's ability to keep track of Nursey's whereabouts at all times, because Dex grabs his arm and hauls him back instantly.

"Looks like you have it under control," Jack tells him, and Nursey grins and says, "Heeeeeeeeeeey, Jack," and then his attention returns to the bannister. Jack hears Dex saying "You're going to break  _ your entire skull" _ behind him as he continues down the stairs.

Yeah, that seems like something he's going to leave in Dex's capable hands.

The distance between the foot of the stairs and the kitchen is pretty short, and Jack manages to get in and out without exchanging a single word with anyone, which is a minor victory. Now to check on Shitty.

Knowing him, he'll probably either be by the beer pong, the tub juice in the downstairs bathroom, or out on the Reading Room, so Jack decides to check the downstairs area first. 

Shitty isn't by the beer pong— Holster is there, playing doubles with some guy Jack has never seen before, and judging by the shouts of victory, they're beating the pair they're playing against. And Jack watches Holster— only a little drunk, by the looks of it— sling an affectionate arm around the objectively beautiful guy he's playing with, and thinks,  _ Huh. _

(Jack knows much more about Holster's type than he wants to, and he's pretty sure that it's just 'the frattier, the better'. He's also pretty sure that if anything happens, he will hear about it loudly, at length, and in much more detail than he would like, so he doesn't linger. He's here to find Shitty.)

He has to elbow his way through the people a little to get to the downstairs bathroom, because there are a lot more people dancing in the living room, but eventually he makes it and finds Shitty, standing guard over the tub juice, leaning against the wall and chatting with Tango about something. He looks relaxed— he's not wearing a shirt, and that usually improves Shitty's mood.

"Shits," Jack calls when he's close enough for Shitty to hear him.

Shitty looks over from his conversation and says, "My beauteous bestie! What brings you down here?"

Jack shrugs. "Just checking in. Did you lock your door?"

He has to think about it, but eventually Shitty concludes, "Yes."

"Why do you need to lock your door?" Tango asks, and as soon as Shitty launches into the story of how multiple people have vomited in his room at kegsters over the years, Jack figures it's safe to leave. He has accomplished his mission. And there's nothing Shitty loves more than telling stories about things that have happened to the hockey team over the years, which means he and Tango have a weird symbiotic relationship. 

He starts trying to get back to his room, but more people must have arrived, because suddenly the Haus is packed. Jack ends up just standing against the wall for a minute, hoping that people will move around and a path will clear up, but it takes a while. And some other people must have had the same idea, because there are a couple of people a couple feet down from him who are talking very loudly to each other, and Jack doesn't mean to eavesdrop but he hears them talking about the hockey team and, well, then he can't stop himself.

"This is pretty standard for the hockey team's parties," the black-haired one says. "I'm not a huge partier, but the music is good, so I usually show up for a little while. Tub juice is godawful, though. You'll be hungover for like three days."

The blond one sighs hugely. "The music is good, but... I'm just, like, men's sports teams are  _ weird, _ okay?" His voice sounds vaguely familiar, but maybe Jack is just very familiar with the average cadence of a drunk person's voice. "Like. Denice. You would not believe some of the shit I've seen with hockey players." The way he says  _ hockey _ adds at least seven syllables to it, drawled out like he doesn't care at all about getting to the next word, and it's the pinpointing of a Southern accent with those few sentences that makes Jack think,  _ holy shit. _

Because that is Eric Bittle.

Either that, or it's someone who is very good at impersonating Eric Bittle. His accent is stronger than Jack has heard in interviews, maybe because of the alcohol, maybe because he tones it down to talk to reporters— Jack does that with his own accent— and he's shorter than Jack had expected, which means that Jack has a great view of the top of his head.

"Like, I know hockey players who are, like, nice people, but I'm just saying," Eric Bittle continues, and Jack doesn't even have to strain to hear his words over the music. "Most of them are assholes. Like, men's sports teams in general suck."

Jack decides maybe he doesn't like Eric Bittle.

The other one— Denice— shrugs. "The culture's bad. Toxic masculinity everywhere. The lacrosse team is even worse. Justin looks like he's having fun, though."

"Mm, he's having a ball," Eric Bittle agrees.

They move on to talking about Justin, whoever he is, and Jack makes his escape. Dex and Nursey aren't on the landing anymore, and he briefly wonders where they've gotten to, but he hears their voices from the room Nursey and Chowder share, directly across the hall from Jack. So Nursey isn't dead. That's good.

He unlocks his door, and when he enters his room and shuts the door behind him, it's the most relaxed he's felt since going down the stairs earlier. Parties are not Jack's comfort zone at all.

It's late enough that he would normally be going to bed, but Jack has a system for late nights when there are kegsters going on downstairs, so he changes into his sweatpants and sits down in bed with his laptop to watch something until the party dies down. Which will probably take several hours, but Jack's Netflix watchlist is full of things he wants to watch, as well as things Shitty and Holster have told him he needs to watch to be cultured, so he's set for a while.

The worst thing about kegsters is that Jack always winds up cleaning up.

Nobody ever  _ expects _ him to— they're all very courteous and they do help— but nobody ever cleans up before they go back to their rooms and crash, which means they have to clean up the next morning, which means Jack, as the first person up, has to start cleaning if he wants to be able to get to the coffee pot without going through an obstacle course first.

Frankly, he's used to it at this point, which is why he's more than a little surprised when he comes downstairs that morning and finds Holster, XL trash bag in hand, methodically working his way through the living room. He's already over halfway done. 

The other thing that surprises him is that Holster is humming to himself. This is pretty normal, but usually Holster needs to be fully awake (enough so that he stops resenting being awake) to do it, which usually doesn't happen before ten AM, and it's only a little past eight right now.

"Uh," Jack says from the doorway. "Good morning?"

"Good  _ morning," _ Holster declares as soon as he looks up and sees Jack. "Guess what I did last night?" He doesn't wait for Jack to respond. "I met the most  _ beautiful _ man on the face of the earth. And teamed up with him for pong and  _ decimated _ everyone. Well, everyone except this one really tiny girl but she beat literally everyone she played so I'm not counting her.  _ And _ I got the guy's number. His name is Justin. I'm in love."

Jack doesn't really know what to say to that, so he goes with "Cool?" (Although Eric Bittle had mentioned a Justin last night. They're probably not connected, though— it's a common name and there were tons of people at the Haus.)

"Also, I found a teeny tiny extra-small denim jacket that probably doesn't belong to any of us, so it's by the door in case someone comes by looking for it."

This is more familiar terrain. "Good. I'll grab a trash bag and help you pick stuff up."

"'Swawesome. I think I'm gonna ask Nursey to help me write a good first text later."

"Can't you just say 'hi'?"

Holster rolls his eyes. "This is why you're single."

"You're single too."

"Not for long if I have any control over the situation." He's back to humming and half-waltzing around the living room with his trash bag. Holster is  _ never _ happy this early in the morning. So he must really like this guy.

But Jack can't think of any possible responses other than a shrug. "Good luck, then."

And he goes to grab a bag, but hearing about this Justin guy is just reminding him of Eric Bittle in the way that hearing about someone else getting a tooth knocked out in a game makes you a little more conscious of your own mouthguard. 

Maybe that's why, when he returns to the living room, he says, "I think I saw Eric Bittle last night."

Holster almost drops his trash bag. "No shit. At the kegster?"

"Yeah. Don't get too excited, though, he doesn't have the highest opinion of hockey teams."

Jack relates what he heard, but instead of nodding along and getting righteously outraged (which is generally what Jack expects from Holster at most times), Holster frowns and says, "So a drunk guy who you  _ think _ was Eric Bittle, despite not actually seeing his face, said that men's sports teams suck, and whoever he was with made some comment about toxic masculinity?" He picks up what looks like an open tube of chapstick and tosses it into the trash bag. "Dude, if Shitty was there he would have high-fived them. Relax."

"Okay, but you can't deny it was rude since we were the ones hosting the party," Jack points out.

"He  _ was _ drunk, according to you. Also, the guy just got here. Nursey will enact some sort of master plan to befriend him and then he'll discover that we don't suck nearly as much as the lax team does." 

Which Jack can reluctantly agree is a reasonable course of action, but he's still feeling... well. Territorial. He doesn't voice that out loud, though, because it sounds ridiculous even in his head.

And then Holster starts humming and dancing around the room again, so the conversation is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've fully given up on consistent chapter lengths whatever happens happens honestly lmao
> 
> bitty, not even talking to jack: i have had negative experiences with men's sports teams  
> jack: You Come Into My Home.. You Insult My Passion...... The Audacity..........
> 
> as always i love hearing y'all's guesses on who is who!! (ofc as we get further into the story things will become more and more obvious and they won't be guesses anymore. BUT Y'KNOW. right now they're guesses)
> 
> and thanks to to omgdexnursey, nurseanddex, thefiveboxingwizards, and moonlightwytch for their encouragement!!!
> 
> -love, birl <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been forever y'all!! the end of the semester hit my escapist fic writing brain *hard* and i had to dive into weird aus of all for the game to recover

Of course, Holster's newfound love doesn't stop him from bringing up Jack's mystery encounter with probably-Eric-Bittle at team lunch, and Jack is going to hazard a guess that it's solely because Nursey and Dex are both there, the topic relates to Eric Bittle, and Holster is an instigator. Jack has learned this after three years of playing with him.

"Jack says Eric Bittle's rude," Holster declares as soon as Nursey and Dex sit down at the table. (Nursey mock-gasps and Dex just raises his eyebrows.) "Apparently he drunkenly insulted men's sports teams for being dens of toxic masculinity or something."

"Right on," Nursey says. "Jack, chill."

"Shitty does that sober," Johnson points out, and he unfortunately has a point, even if Jack isn't nearly as irritated by Eric Bittle's remarks as he was in the moment, stuck at a kegster with nowhere else to go for the night. (He's beginning to think there were some extra factors that made him decide to dislike him.) "Don't worry about it. Just figure out how to disentangle your core identity from being a hockey player and you'll be fine."

"Wow, Johnson, are you going to be a psychologist after you graduate or something?" Tango asks wide-eyed, and even after a full year of captaining him, Jack still isn't sure if Tango is serious or if he's chirping Johnson right now.

And then Holster's phone, lying on the table next to his plate, buzzes.

And buzzes again.

And buzzes again, and he picks it up, and whatever series of texts he's just gotten is enough for him to grin at his phone.

Apparently asking Nursey for advice on first texts worked.

"I'm the king of romance," Nursey announces when he notices.

"You did nothing," Dex says. "Holster suggested a text and you said 'sounds chill, go for it, bro.'"

"That is not true. You were only there for like ten seconds. We workshopped it. Holster, back me up."

"Justin said he's going through all his syllabi and putting stuff in his planner and it's kind of boring and he could use a distraction," Holster says without looking up from his phone.

A victorious grin immediately appears on Nursey's face.  _ "I'm the king of romance, _ Dex. Acknowledge it."

Dex spears a piece of broccoli with his fork before he answers, with a sort of deliberateness that makes Jack think Dex has thought out every word of this. "One text does not make you the king of romance.  _ Especially _ not ghostwriting for Holster." Jack is mildly worried for the fate of Dex's broccoli, with how he's gesturing with that fork. "Everyone's more creative when they're solving other people's problems. It's like, a known phenomenon."

Nursey raises his eyebrows. "Oh, so you're saying romance only counts if I'm the one doing the romancing?"

Dex sets his jaw. "Yes."

"Hmm." Nursey taps his fingers on the table for a moment, then pulls a tiny notebook and pen out of his pocket— huh?-- and starts scribbling.

"Are you done?" Holster asks. "Should I go over and hang out with him?"

Nursey manages to visibly smirk even with his face angled down towards the table. "Oo, ' _ hang out' _ with him. Do it."

"Oh my fucking god," Dex says.

"It sounds like he actually requested that you come over?" Tango says, and the innocence with which he says it does not match the 100% success rate on wheeling that Jack knows he has.

"Get it," Whiskey adds, monotone.

"You should do it," Johnson says. 

Holster nods seriously. "Okay. I'm gonna do it."

"Just don't be fucking weird about it," Dex requests.

"Unlikely," Shitty says. "It's Holster."

Holster's jaw drops. "Shitty, I cannot  _ believe _ you would betray me like this."

"Betray you by telling the truth?" But Shitty's smirking. Jack's known him long enough to know he is absolutely enjoying making Holster righteously gobsmacked. "You're fucking weird."

" _ You're _ fucking weird."

"I said it first."

"I said it louder." 

"Anyway," Nursey says. "Holster. Go get your man."

And Holster nods, again, decisively. "Fuck yeah. I'm gonna do it. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Tango says, at the same time that Chowder says, "Seduce him."

But honestly, Jack thinks they probably meant the same thing.

Holster does not stick around for the rest of lunch. In fact, he leaves within five minutes (which is about how long it takes to put his dishes away and wheedle an Altoid out of Dex). And then he's gone, and Nursey murmurs, "Godspeed."

Then it starts raining while they're walking back to the Haus.

And Chowder is complaining and Tango is wondering aloud if he can put his shoes in the washing machine after an unfortunate puddle incident, and Jack is expecting Dex to weigh in any second with an opinion about whether the washing machine can, in fact, handle Tango's Converse, but Dex seems to be busy arguing with Nursey about whether the rain means Holster will stay in this Justin guy's room or come back to the Haus before it gets worse (it's a heated debate).

Although Holster has to come back eventually. They have morning practice tomorrow.

"Who's on our porch?" Tango asks as they pass the football house.

Everyone simultaneously looks at the Haus's porch a couple houses down, where there's a silhouette of someone standing under the awning.

"Someone short," Whiskey says.

"Don't be fucking rude," Shitty says. But Whiskey's right. The person leaning against the wall of the Haus isn't much more than half the height of their front door.

"I hope they weren't waiting for us," Chowder says. "Or, like, if they are, that they didn't have to wait too long. How long were we at the dining hall? Oh god, what if it's been like  _ half an hour— _ oh, no, it's Larissa, it's fine, she's cool."

"Who's Larissa?" Tango asks.

"And why is she on our porch?" Jack feels the need to add.

Chowder shrugs. "She'll tell us! Larissa manages the volleyball team, she's  _ 'swawesome. _ I think she was at our kegster last night. I saw her playing pong, or at least it was someone who looked like her, I don't know, it was pretty late and I wasn't really paying attention, but Cait says she's a pong legend!"

By the time Chowder finishes this overview of Larissa, she's within earshot, and Jack knows she's within earshot because she looks up from her phone and says, "Fuck yeah I am. 'Sup, Chris. I left a jacket here last night, have any of you seen it? It's denim."

Ah, the owner of the 'teeny-tiny denim jacket.' "Yeah, I picked it up this morning," Jack replies as he climbs the steps to the porch. "It's right inside."

"Cool." Larissa is even shorter up close, but an army of six-foot-plus hockey bros doesn't seem to faze her all. Which makes sense, if she's the women's volleyball team's manager. Jack is pretty sure a large number of them are at least six feet tall too. "Hope it doesn't have beer on it."

"Uh... not that I noticed?"

He unlocks the door, and he's all set to hand Larissa her jacket and continue with his life, but then he hears Shitty say from behind him, "Wait.  _ Larissa. _ Were you or were you not the one who beat Holster and his mystery guy at pong like,  _ six times _ last night?"

"Is Holster the loud guy?" Larissa asks as Jack hands her the jacket, which he'd put right next to the door that morning. "Thanks, dude," she adds to him.

"Yes," Shitty says. "We need to know everything you know about the guy he was with."

Larissa raises her eyebrows, and then, without Jack quite knowing how it happens, they all wind up in the living room, arranged on the furniture (and the floor) looking at Larissa like she's about to give a speech. She has her jacket slung over her shoulders like a cape and her stance suddenly, viscerally reminds Jack of Hall in the locker room before games.

"So," Larissa says. "My observations of the guy Holster was playing pong with last night. Let's start with the basics. He was extremely tall. He dressed like a frat bro. He also had great cheekbones and was decent at pong. Not decent enough to beat me, but respectable." Tango nods along seriously. "Moving on. I assumed he and Holster knew each other, but honestly, after a few minutes I wasn't sure if they actually knew each other's names or if they were just drawn to each other by the animal magnetism of drinking games?"

"That's usually how Holster finds people," Jack says.

Larissa nods. "Makes sense. I think his name was Justin."

"That's what Holster said this morning," Nursey says from where he's perched on the couch armrest in a way that Jack is pretty sure will result in disaster sooner or later. "They were texting."

"Oh, is that why you wanted to know about him?"

"They're hanging out right now," Tango informs her.

"Holster's smitten," Nursey adds.

Larissa nods thoughtfully. "I can see that."

"So," Shitty says. "In your eyewitness opinion, should we welcome this mysterious Justin into the fold?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Have you thought about actually interacting with him before you go all ride-or-die?"

"That's not really how we do things," Nursey says.

"Yeah, I've gotten that impression of you guys."

"I can't tell if we're supposed to be offended or not," Whiskey says, voicing exactly what Jack had been thinking, and Larissa just shrugs at him.

"Anyway. Thanks for my jacket. I'm gonna bounce."

Of course, that's the moment they hear the boom of thunder, and the rain pattering on the roof of the Haus turns into more of a downpour. Larissa glances out the window into the yard, where rain has just started to drown the dead grass, and then says, without even the slightest sign of being fazed, "Or not."

"I guess Holster's probably not coming back from Justin's room anytime soon," Tango says.

" _ Fuck _ yeah," Nursey says with feeling as Chowder asks Larissa if she's down for Mario Kart. "Thank you, weather gods."

"I'm concerned at your investment in Holster's romantic life," Dex tells him.

"I live vicariously through his joy."

"He wants deets," Whiskey says.

Nursey nods. "Also that. But only because I live vicariously through his joy and deets are the proof I need. Maybe you should try it, Dexy-doo." He punctuates this by accepting a video game controller from Chowder, who's passing them out for what Jack can only assume is a Mario Kart tournament in honor of their unexpected guest. Tango and Larissa both have controllers already.

Dex's nose scrunches up as he says, "Try what, sticking my nose in other people's business?"

Nursey tips his head to one side consideringly. "Well. That argument loses a lot of weight once you remember it's Holster we're talking about and he basically grabs all of us by the hair and physically drags our noses into their business."

Dex apparently doesn't have anything to say to that, or at least nothing he can come up with right away, because he meets the end of Nursey's sentence with a huff that might be a quickly silenced laugh and absolutely nothing else.

"Nursey has a point," Jack says, and lets himself be silently amused at how Nursey and Dex both look like deer caught in headlights when they remember that they're not the only people in the world who witness their bickering.

"It's either live vicariously through Holster or feel bitter and single while he keeps living his life," Shitty says. "On that note, I call Toad."

"I wanted Toad," Nursey says plaintively.

"Suck it," Shitty and Dex say in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be quite honest my main struggle with this fic is trying to actually adhere to pride and prejudice instead of just letting the characters run absolutely wild in this au. @nursey and dex can you chill and let me write the MAIN PLOT PLEASE jfslghksdf
> 
> and on that note, those of you who have made your guesses on the minor characters may notice that frequently the minor characters act more like themselves than they act like their pride and prejudice counterparts, which is fully intentional because that's just how we roll in this house!!
> 
> thanks so much for reading!!!  
> -love, birl <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much nursey and dex banter in this chapter, but we DO have nhl star and professional seducer (kinda) kent parson B) all hail the snapback master!!

Jack had found himself having to retrieve Holster the next morning for practice, which consisted of sending increasingly irritated text messages until Holster finally looked at his phone and deigned to leave Justin's room. He did, eventually, but he'd just barely made it out on the ice in time for warm-ups to start.

Jack would have been more irritated if Holster hadn't played 'like his ass was on fire' at practice, as Shitty had referred to it. He can live in this guy's room for the rest of college if he keeps playing like that, in Jack's opinion. 

Which it seems like he might be planning to do, if the way he's glued to his phone now is any indication.

But Holster refuses to provide deets about last night, which is unusual enough that Nursey and Dex are _both_ chirping him as they leave the locker room. Jack would be paying attention to what they're saying, except, well, he's not. He's heard more creative things in his life. He's even heard more creative things that are specifically about Holster staying in someone's dorm overnight before.

But it's not really Nursey and Dex's fault that Holster is so consistent.

And not listening to Nursey and Dex (and Holster) is the reason that he hears someone say "Hey, Zimmermann," barely loud enough to be heard over the rest of the team, as soon as they get outside of Faber.

He turns, and—

Holy shit.

_That's Kent Parson._

"Uh," Jack says eloquently. He's dimly aware that the rest of the team keeps walking, too absorbed in the Great Holster Chirp-Fest to notice what's going on, but at the moment it does not matter to him at all.

Parson, leaning against the wall of Faber, is smaller in real life than he looks on the ice, although they all look bigger on the ice because of the pads. But he's definitely a hockey player— the henley he's wearing pulls over his shoulders, and his jeans look expensive, and so does his watch. And that's _definitely_ an Aces snapback that he's twirling in one hand, but his hair doesn't look like he just took a hat off, it looks... 

Well. Perfect.

Kent Parson is also very pretty. Jack knew this, from interviews, but seeing him on TV and seeing him in person are two _very_ different things, and really, what fucking color are his eyes? Jack honestly has no idea if they're blue or green.

Kent Parson smirks, and Jack realizes he's been caught staring.

"Hey," Parson says. He pushes off the wall and walks over to Jack. He's only a few inches shorter— smaller than the average hockey player, but Jack has seen how well he holds his own on the ice. "Jack Zimmermann?"

"That's me," Jack says.

He smiles. How are his teeth so white? And straight? He's a hockey player, he's supposed to have gross teeth, all the pros do. Or they're supposed to, in Jack's head. "Great. Got a moment to talk?"

"Sure," Jack manages, hopefully sounding fairly normal.

"Cool." Parson taps the Aces snapback on his leg. "I'm sure you know why I'm here."

"Uh, actually, I don't." He has an _idea,_ but that's very different from actually hearing it directly from Kent Parson himself.

The grin on Parson's face widens. "So I get to break the news, then. You'll be getting an official offer sometime this week, but the Aces have been watching you for a while, and we're pretty impressed. You thinking about heading west once you graduate?"

Holy _shit_.

Jack has anticipated, of course, that he'd get some offers from NHL teams. He knows he's a pretty good hockey player, even if he never quite feels good _enough,_ and the team's done fairly well while he's been captain, and obviously his plan is to go into the NHL as a free agent, so yes, technically, he's prepared for this to happen. But it's fucking _September._ He had no idea that teams would start scouting this early. And for the Aces to send _Kent Parson?_

But Jack's been coached on this sort of thing from his father, so he shoves down his nerves (as well as... whatever is happening to him as a result of Parson's smile), and says, "Sure, I'm open to it, but it depends on the offers I get."

Parson nods. "Understandable. A lot more choices than going in the draft, I guess. Don't let me keep you from checking out all your options, but I do want to make sure you know exactly what the Aces are putting on the table. I'm sure you've heard the rumors that Davey— Davidson's— retiring at the end of this season?" When Jack nods, he says, "Well. Not to give anything away, but we're going to need a new center on our first line. Management thinks we could play well together." And then he winks.

He _winks,_ holy _shit._ Of course, 'holy shit' has been a majority of Jack's internal monologue ever since he turned around and saw Kent Parson outside Faber, but again, just for emphasis, _holy fucking shit._

"Not to mention," Parson continues, "we've been looking for guys with some leadership experience. So your three years as a captain— well, counting this year, obviously— is a big plus. I haven't got the official thing with me, but I've got a bunch of stuff in bullet point form on my phone, so if you've got some time we can talk through it now."

"Sounds great," Jack says, and he probably loses all of his composure when he says it, but Parson doesn't seem to mind. "Uh, we can probably borrow the coaches' office for a bit, or there's a coffeeshop not far from here." 

When he gestures in the direction of Annie's, he spots a familiar-looking blond approaching Faber with a bag slung over his shoulder. Huh. It occurs to Jack that he's never seen Eric Bittle both in person and sober before. Which doesn't mean much, since he's only seen Bittle in person once before, but still.

Eric Bittle walks up the stairs to Faber and walks right past the two of them, with a nod to Jack and what looks suspiciously like a glare at Kent Parson.

The doors swing closed behind him, and Kent Parson says, his smile replaced by a look of consideration, "Huh. Was that... Eric Bittle?"

"Yes, I think so," Jack confirms. "I'm not sure, though. I haven't talked to him much."

"Ah, got it." Parson taps the Aces snapback on his leg for a moment before saying, gleaming smile firmly back in place, "What were you saying about a coffeeshop?"

On the way to Annie's, Jack's phone buzzes several times in his pocket, and he makes his excuses to Kent Parson before pulling it out and checking, just to make sure it's not some sort of captain-related emergency.

It's very much not.

**Holster:** Bro did someone kidnap u on the way back from Faber

**Holster:** Nursey and Dex are betting on it and I need to know so I bet on the right one

**Holster:** I mean. So I can discourage them from doing things like betting on their teammates behind their backs

**Jack:** So they're done chirping you eh?

**Holster:** Stfu

**Jack:** Bye

**Holster:** Wow rude

**Holster:** I'm gonna assume you didn't get kidnapped though

"My teammates," he says as he slips his phone back into his pocket. "Making sure I didn't get kidnapped."

Parson laughs, and it's just as shiny and golden and confident as everything else about him. "Awesome. Mine have done that before, too, but it usually happens at parties." He grins at Jack. "Not that I'm a huge partier. Some of the Aces are, but if I'm at a house party I spend as much time as possible with the pets. Especially cats. Somehow a few of the newbies still haven't figured out that if they can't find me at a party, they should be looking in the room with the scratching post."

Oh, yeah. The cats. Kent Parson's cat is a thing of legend— her name is Kit Purrson, and Jack knows that she has her own Instagram, although he doesn't have one so he's never looked.

"I'm not a huge partier either," Jack says. "They're not really my scene." Which is an understatement, but going to parties and hanging out with cats is still a step above what Jack does.

"Yeah, that's fair. I'd say that, like, a quarter of the team's like that, maybe more. The guys with families, usually, and then a few of us single ones." There's that smirk again, slow and almost knowing, somehow. "People don't really get chirped for it, though, because they all know what I'm like at parties and I'm the captain. Most of us let loose for Cup celebrations, though."

Another reason why this entire conversation is fucking unreal. The Aces have won the Stanley Cup twice in the past four years, and their _captain_ , the face of the entire goddamn franchise (and what a face— no, not the right direction for his thoughts to go), is here trying to sell Jack on their team, and just— 

His father is going to have a field day when Jack calls him after this. After discussing contracts with an NHL captain in advance of getting his official offer. After discussing contracts with an NHL captain who _came to Samwell—_ the Aces had played Boston last night, Jack dimly remembers, which must be why Parson is even in the area right now— and waited outside Faber for Jack's practice to end, all so they could talk about the Aces.

Forget his father, the rest of the team is going to lose their collective minds when Jack gets back to the Haus. They might even insist on another kegster. At this point, he's in a good enough mood that he might even agree to stay for a few minutes.

Ironic, considering their topic of conversation at the moment.

"Well, I would imagine a Cup celebration is different," Jack says.

Parson nods. "Like you wouldn't fucking believe. Y'know, I played juniors— I saw you did, too." Ah, yes. Jack's fairly well-publicized exit from juniors is something he's mostly gotten past, but Parson must see his face change, or something, because he says, "Honestly, I think you made the right decision, getting out of there. That place is not something I would ever do again, and NCAA hockey's a whole different beast, so the variety looks good for you. But championships in juniors are _nothing_ compared to what it feels like to win the Cup. I do highly recommend it."

Another wink, and at this point Jack is vaguely sure that Kent Parson might just be trying to give him a heart attack. That seems like a bad choice for someone he's trying to recruit, but Jack's not going to argue with his methods.

Not at all.

They reach Annie's, and Jack instinctively holds the door for Parson, who grins directly at him and says "Thanks" and Jack has to remind his fingers to let go of the door. He follows Parson inside, and when he orders a salted caramel latte, Jack may or may not commit it to memory. Not on purpose, of course.

Okay. He'll have a lot to tell his parents and his teammates, if he can get through hanging out with Kent Parson without passing out. Hopefully he can pass it off as just normal levels of starstruck.

Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, parse. do you know what you're doing? i guess we'll find out!
> 
> also- oh, bitty, you are really not covering yourself in glory in jack's pov, but that's how the story goes i guess *insert shrug emoji*
> 
> i don't know how the hockey season works and i'm pretty sure that a west coast team playing the bruins in september is highly inaccurate, but that's just how we roll in this house B)
> 
> thanks for dealing w/ the mini hiatus, y'all!! hopefully we should be back to updating every couple of weeks now, and i'll let u know on tumblr (@birlcholtz) if that changes. as always, if you've got a guess on who is who, comment and let me know!! i love seeing what y'all think and why!!! (we're starting to reach the point where it becomes fairly obvious, if you know pride and prejudice well enough, but indulge me lol)
> 
> thanks for reading!!!  
> love, birl <3


	5. Chapter 5

They don't stay in Annie's long. Without Jack quite knowing how it happens, after a while they wind up strolling— _ walking _ around Lake Quad with their coffees in hand as Parson tells Jack about Troy, the other winger on the first line. 

"Swoops signed the same year as me, played second line for a season before getting moved up to first, and we've played on the same line since then." Parson leans in and lowers his voice, like he's going to tell Jack a secret. "He's unfortunately a dog person, but we all have our faults. He also claims to hate Las Vegas and then keeps renewing his contract for absurdly long times."

"HEY!" someone bellows across the quad. "JACK!"

Parson raises an eyebrow as Holster barrels towards them with Johnson, Tango, and Whiskey in tow. "Teammates?"

"Yeah," Jack says, and hopes fiercely that they're not here to embarrass him.

"Still not kidnapped?" Holster says when he gets within speaking distance.

"I'm glad the Darcy-Wickham plot is starting to kick in," Johnson says.

Tango frowns. "Huh?"

_ "Kent Parson?" _ Whiskey says.

Parson's other eyebrow rises as well.

Jack shrugs and hopes it doesn't look as awkward as it feels. "Johnson's our goalie, he gets like that. Uh, this is Holster, Johnson, Tango, and Whiskey. Teammates."

"Are you really Kent Parson?" Tango says.

Parson grins. "The one and only."

"So what are you doing at Samwell? Like, it's cool, but don't you have practice?"

"Don't question the Aces' roadie schedule," Johnson says. "It took a lot of work to organize it the right way."

Jack prays for Johnson to have a sudden advisor meeting or class he needs to get to.

Parson blinks. "Uh, yeah, I was in the area for a game. Figured I'd come by Samwell and see what you've got going on."

"'Swawesome!" Tango says. "How long are you staying?"

"Not long, unfortunately." Parson's brilliant smile returns, now that the conversation has moved on from... whatever the fuck Johnson's contribution was. "I'm on the red-eye back to Vegas tonight. But your captain has been  _ very _ helpful."

"No time for a kegster, then." Holster sounds genuinely regretful. "Damn."

"What, no moving heaven and earth to get one organized for tonight?" Jack says.

Holster grins. "Nope, I have plans."

"What plans?" Tango says.

"Plans that do not involve you."

Tango presses both hands to his chest, wounded. " _ Ouch _ , you could have just said a booty call."

Right on cue, Jack spots the guy from the kegster walking toward them.

There are two people with him—a short girl dressed like she's on her way to a sock hop and... Eric Bittle. What is it about that guy? It feels like now that Jack's seen him once, he sees him everywhere.

Bittle's hair looks damp, waves a little flatter and blond a little darker. That makes sense, since he was at the rink earlier. Is there going to be a repeat of that wordless glare at Parson?

Well, there's only one way to find out, and it looks inevitable.

Jack spots the moment Parson sees them too. There's the faintest furrow between his brows before he takes a sip of his latte and turns his attention back to Jack's teammates. "Don't worry about the kegster thing, you're not missing much. I'm not fun at parties."

Holster sighs dramatically. "Ah, like Jack. He hides in his room."

"Maybe it's a captain thing," Jack says.

"I think you must be right." Parson holds up his coffee cup. "Cheers."

Jack taps his cup against Parson's, but his mind has drifted back to what he's pretty sure will be an explosion when Eric Bittle and Kegster Guy arrive. That would not be ideal for Jack's chances of signing with the Aces. Not that he's committed—it'll be best to wait on all offers until he has a little more information. But, well. He definitely wants to keep this option open.

"Hey, Adam!" Kegster Guy says. The girl with him raises her eyebrows and nudges Eric Bittle, but he's busy looking vaguely displeased at a spot right over Parson's left shoulder.

Holster's face lights up. "Justin! What's up, dude?"

Right. Jack forgot Holster is incapable of talking to someone he likes without calling them 'bro,' 'dude,' or, on one memorable occasion, 'friend-o.' He's the king of the accidental mixed signal.

Justin shrugs. "Not much. Wait—this is Denice, and this is Eric."

Denice says "Hi!" and Eric starts and returns to the conversation when he hears his name. He smiles at Holster, unexpectedly charming compared to what Jack has seen of him before—but then, he's already proved he has a great media smile. It doesn't necessarily mean anything. "Hi, Adam. We have heard a  _ lot _ about you."

He offers his hand, and Holster shakes it. "Ha. Um. Like what?"

"There are truly no words to describe it," Denice says, and Justin looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and die.

"Well, we've heard a lot about Justin too, so that's fair," Johnson says, and okay, is Johnson's entire goal today to embarrass teammates? Because he's doing a great job. 

As Holster and Justin try to maneuver each other into rehashing what they've told their friends, Whiskey clears his throat awkwardly and turns to Parson. "So, uh. You run an Instagram for your cat, right?"

Parson shakes off the weirdness that had fallen over him when Bittle approached and smiles. "Yeah. I spend so much time on it, I'm lucky management thinks it's good publicity."

"Huh. When did you start it?"

"Literally like three weeks after I got her." Parson pulls his phone out, and Jack decides perhaps that's the time to tune out of that conversation. He likes cats well enough, but he's getting the feeling that Parson's leading up to scrolling through his cat's entire Instagram, and that's just a little much.

Besides, listening to Holster's conversation with Justin might provide Jack with chirping material.

"Uh, I was wondering if you're planning another kegster?" Justin is saying when Jack tunes in.

Holster beams. "Literally any time, dude. Name the date, I'll make it happen."

"What if we have class?" Tango says.

Denice nods. "That's a valid concern."

"Valid but irrelevant." Holster turns to Justin. "Seriously, though. We do them all the time, so if there's a day that works for you, just let me know."

Justin shrugs. "After midterms are over, maybe? I'm definitely going to need something to take my mind off those."

Holster smiles. "Kegster in honor of midterms being over. Got it."

Okay. That conversation isn't interesting either, so Jack tunes back into whatever Whiskey and Parson are talking about.

"Center, right?" Parson is saying. "I've seen some of your games."

"Yeah," Whiskey says. He sounds a bit surprised. Honestly, Jack is too, but he shouldn't be—if the Aces were looking at one player from Samwell, they might as well check out the rest of the team too. Whiskey's second line, but he's a shoo-in for first line next year once Jack graduates.

Anyway. Hockey. Not cats. Thank God.

But Jack's luck in finding a good conversation doesn't hold out.

"Wait, so you're an Olympian, right?" Tango says to Eric Bittle.

"Uh-huh," Bittle says.

"'Swawesome! So do you know Parson, then?" Parson and Whiskey's conversation dies out abruptly as Parson looks over at Tango, who keeps talking. "Since you were both at the last winter Olympics?"

Bittle's media smile looks just a tad strained. "I sure do. It's funny how we keep running into each other in new places, isn't it?"

Parson raises his coffee cup in Bittle's direction. "Yep."

"Anyway," Bittle says, with what looks like an attempt to rally his smile to its previous ease. "We were actually on our way to lunch, and I want to make sure we get a table inside, so..."

"Oh, yeah," Denice says. "So we'll see you at the post-midterms kegster!"

"Sounds perfect!" Holster says.

"And I'll text you," Justin adds to Holster.

He grins. "Not if I text you first."

"That makes no sense," Tango mutters.

"Shush, this is narratively important," Johnson says.

Justin nods slowly. "Right. Okay. Well. See you around."

Eric Bittle links his arm through Justin's and practically frog-marches him away. Denice waves before catching up to them and saying something quietly to Bittle.

"So," Holster says, staring at Justin's retreating figure with vague longing. "Does anyone else want to get lunch?"

"I'm in," Tango says. "Whiskey, you have a thing at one, right?"

"Yeah," Whiskey says.

Parson nods at him. "Nice meeting you. See you around, maybe."

Whiskey smiles. "Yeah. Maybe."

And then he and Tango and Holster head off to the dining hall, Johnson trailing them and looking through something on his phone, and Jack and Parson are alone again.

Well, as alone as they can be in the middle of Lake Quad.

Parson taps his snapback on his thigh, staring at where Bittle has already vanished into the slow but steady stream of students going to get food. "Has Eric... said anything to you about me?"

"Uh, no? I don't think I've ever had an actual conversation with him." Jack finishes his coffee. "Why? If that's something you can talk about, I mean."

Parson sighs. It's the first time Jack has seen him look less than composed, like a real person and not a Calder-winning, incredibly dashing Ken doll. "He kind of hates me. I have an ex who things ended badly with, and Eric's super close with them." Jack notes the pronoun, but now probably isn't the time to bring it up. "So ever since we split up, Eric's been pretty cold. If I'm in a room, he always leaves as soon as he can find an excuse. Which sucks, because we do keep running into each other for some reason, so it's gotten awkward."

Jack frowns. "If he has some kind of problem, he could at least just say so instead of avoiding you."

"Yeah, well. We all deal with things differently, I guess." Parson shrugs. "I don't know what my ex has told him, but me approaching him to find out probably wouldn't do any good, since he's so determined to not talk to me. It does bother me, though. It's like he doesn't care that I was upset too."

That does sound frustrating. Jack's gotten better at dealing with people who don't like him, but dealing with people who  _ probably _ don't like him but refuse to be open about it is another thing entirely. "Some people are like that. At least you play different sports."

"Yep. And maybe he'll chill out over time, who knows?" Parson shrugs. "Best thing I can do is just keep living my life."

"Definitely," Jack says. "He's the one being weird to you."

Parson nods. "Ball's in his court. There's not much I can do. But, hey, are you doing anything for the rest of the day?"

Jack determinedly ignores how much that sounds like the precursor to a date. Parson is here for work, basically. He's recruiting Jack. This is how recruitment goes. Jack knows how to deal with recruitment, he basically has a script for it. "I've got a study group at four, but otherwise I'm free."

But at the same time, he kind of hopes Parson just wants to... hang out. That's important, right? To see if Jack would mesh with the team. That could be considered part of recruitment.

A smile spreads across Parson's face. "Is your rink booked?"

"No." Jack knows the schedule like the back of his hand—both when it's officially booked and when he or Whiskey tend to turn up to practice things.

"Good." Parson drains his coffee cup. "Wanna skate?"

Jack smiles. "Yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOOOOOOO we're back baby!!!!! i'm still juggling multiple writing projects (and occasionally getting sidetracked into one shots) so no guarantees on how fast updates will be, BUT. things are happening!!
> 
> up next: the 'netherfield ball'!
> 
> thank you sm for reading!!  
> -love, birl<3


	6. Chapter 6

The post-midterms kegster looks pretty much like every other kegster Holster and Shitty have ever thrown, except for all of the Mardi Gras beads. ("It lends a certain  _ je ne sais pas, _ doesn't it, Jack?")

It does not. It lends a certain increase in tripping hazards, and they'll probably be finding beads everywhere for the rest of the semester.

But Justin looks like he's enjoying himself, and he and Holster have definitely stuck together all night, so at least Holster's efforts (and the rest of the team's, once he dragged them into it) to impress his love haven't gone unnoticed. The kegster is big and loud and full of students ready to blow off steam after midterms.

Jack is beginning to wonder how he let Shitty convince him to actually attend this one.

Oh, right. Because drunk Nursey discovered the art of batting his eyelashes at Dex, who got drunk himself to cope, and now Jack is stationed at the foot of the stairs in case they wander by to bodily force them into the kitchen to drink water and admit how much tub juice they've had. Shitty said the magic words ("you're their captain"), and lo and behold, here Jack is.

He drinks the last of his water and wonders if he can afford to leave his post to get more.

But immediately, the path to the kitchen is blocked by Eric Bittle, who locks eyes with Jack and beams at him. "Y'know, I thought the hockey team would be full of assholes? But it's not, so color me  _ very _ surprised. Good job."

"Thank you?" Jack manages.

"It's a shame, though, really, 'cause Justin is spending all his time with Adam now." Bittle sighs and drapes himself against the wall. He's definitely tipsy, if not well on his way to wasted. "And then  _ Denice _ has hit it off with Shruti, who was my friend first, not that I'd want to date her, obviously, since she's a girl and I am very gay, but all my friends are paired off now so I'm bored and single and lonely and I need to find other people who are bored and single and lonely and you look like all of those things, so let's be friends."

What the fuck? Why is Bittle's greatest talent drunkenly insulting Jack?

_ He's right, though, _ a small, traitorous portion of Jack's brain adds. But Jack didn't even want to come to this kegster.

Bittle sighs at the dance floor. "Fuck, I need water. Don't love the idea of a massive hangover tomorrow."

"You know where the kitchen is?" Jack says, and hopes that will end this interaction.

He frowns. "I don't... think so?" The lights Holster hung up around the room throw flashes of different colors on his face, his hair, his neck, and Jack reminds himself that Bittle has a running streak of insulting him at kegsters. Even if the neck of his shirt is wide enough to show sharp collarbones and—nope, stopping there, not going any further. Jack will escort Bittle to the kitchen, grab some water for both of them, and return to his post.

Then the song changes, and Bittle brightens. "Beyoncé!"

Jack can practically see all thoughts of getting water fly out of Bittle's head as he takes two steps toward the dance floor, then stops and turns around. "Aren't you coming?"

"I thought you were sobering up," Jack says.

"Oh, come on, you can't  _ not _ dance to this. We'll get water after." He wraps a hand around Jack's wrist and tugs, just a little, to get his point across. "Please?"

Not even a moment later, Larissa Duan basically materializes out of the crowd of people. "Zimmermann, are you any good at beer pong? They're starting up a tournament and I need to win it."

Bittle's hand is still on Jack's wrist, but he turns and smiles at Larissa. "Hi! Who are you?"

"Larissa. And you're Eric Bittle." She looks back at Jack. "Beer pong?"

"I'm terrible at it," Jack tells her. "Go find Shitty. The one with the flow and no shirt."

"Great. I'll dedicate our win to you. Bye."

She vanishes, and Bittle's attention immediately returns to Jack. His face is impossibly earnest, maybe because he's figured out that a Beyoncé song is not enough to lure Jack to the dance floor. "Dance with me?" he asks, smiling tentatively. Then he trips over his own feet, or possibly a Mardi Gras necklace, and stumbles back to the wall, pressing his free hand against it for balance. "Oops."

As if Jack has not dealt with enough drunk people already, Nursey and Dex choose that moment to resurface, wandering into his peripheral vision with their arms slung around each other. Nursey is saying something and Dex is nodding along intently. At least they're still in the Haus.

Jack needs to intercept Nursey and Dex and drag them to the kitchen. He also should really get Bittle to the kitchen as well. But that's three drunk people, and Jack only has two hands.

He has a narrow window to get Nursey and Dex before they go past, so he says to Bittle, "I'll dance with you in the kitchen."

Bittle smiles wider. "Promise?" He's looking at Jack like he only he has eyes for him, which Jack does his best to ignore. Bittle was complaining about how he needed friends, and he's decided Jack is a potential friend, and they're just going to the kitchen.

Nursey and Dex are almost within grabbing distance. "Promise."

"It'll be great." Bittle's eyes sparkle.

Jack starts walking to the kitchen, Bittle following with both hands on Jack's arm, like he's afraid they'll lose each other. It's a reasonable concern, with how crowded the Haus is. Jack snags the collar of Dex's shirt on the way. "You need water."

Dex blinks at Jack. "Uh-huh. But Nursey's sad."

Perfect.

Jack cranes his neck to get a look at Nursey's face. His eyes do look suspiciously watery, fixed on the beer pong tournament. "They just—they look so  _ happy _ together," he says mournfully. "Dexy, I want to be loved like that.  _ I _ wanna dance with somebody."

"But they're not dancing, they're playing beer pong," Dex says. "That's different."

"No, like the song. You know,  _ IIIIIIIIIIIIII wanna dance with somebody, I wanna... _ uh... whatever the next part is,  _ with somebody who loves me." _

Jack's not touching that conversation with a ten-foot pole. He tunes out whatever Dex mumbles in response, face reddening, and keeps pulling his teammates and Bittle to the kitchen. Bittle, at least, seems content to go to the kitchen now that Jack's promised to dance with him there.

Fuck, what was Jack thinking?

He starts plotting ways to get out of dancing, but Bittle's attention wanders over to the beer pong tournament, which Holster and Justin are presiding over. Larissa and Shitty seem to be annihilating the competition—Larissa's shot lands precisely in the other team's last cup, and Holster and Justin both cheer so loudly one would think they're the ones who won. Holster high-fives Larissa, and Jack winces. Holster's victory high-fives are painful. But Larissa doesn't blink, or even shake her hand out after.

"Huh," Bittle says, and he wraps both of his arms around Jack's, walking so close that Jack can feel his body heat.

Nursey and Dex burst into a rousing yet somehow very sad rendition of "I Wanna Dance With Somebody," and Jack doubles his pace. Maybe he can hand custody of them off to Shitty, or Chowder if he's around, or... pretty much anyone who isn't too wasted. Then his job will be done, and he can leave.

"Why are we going so fast?" Bittle asks. Then he answers his own question. "Oh, we need to get to the kitchen before the song ends."

Right. Jack can't leave without fulfilling his promise or figuring out how to talk Bittle out of holding him to it. But at least the song's been playing for a couple of minutes. There can't be that much of it left.

They reach the kitchen, mercifully empty of everyone except a couple of soccer players grabbing beers, and Jack pushes Nursey and Dex in the direction of the kitchen chairs. "Sit and drink water." Hopefully they can't do that and sing at the same time.

"It's time!" Bittle declares.

"You need water," Jack says.

Bittle's lower lip pushes out. "But we're in the kitchen. You promised."

"Oh my god," Nursey murmurs.

Just as Jack is resigning himself to actually dancing to Beyoncé in the kitchen with Eric Bittle, whose pants are tighter than they have any right to be, the song changes.

Bittle looks like the world has just crashed down around his ears. "Oh,  _ no." _

"Maybe they'll play more Beyoncé later," Jack says.

"They'd better, because you promised." But he bounces back quickly, hopping up to sit on the counter and looking around the kitchen. "Y'all need some curtains."

Looks like they're back to the drunken insults, although Bittle's tone is musing. And then he says, "My aunt might have some you can use. Do you want them?"

"Your... aunt's curtains?"

Bittle nods. "Uh-huh. For the kitchen. Right there." He points, somewhat unnecessarily, at the window. "The lax team doesn't have curtains. You should have them. Even though they're blue. That's not Samwell colors. But they're a nice blue."

Jack is spared from answering when a girl who Jack is pretty sure is one of the new rugby players enters the kitchen, and Bittle says, "Shruti! You're here! Lord, I have  _ so much _ to tell you, where's Denice?"

"She's getting Justin. Come on, let's go get bagel bites, I still have some left."

Bittle nods seriously and slides off the counter. "Good. Let's get bagel bites. Bye, Jack!"

And then he's gone, leaving the Haus arm in arm with Shruti. Denice and Justin pass by a few seconds later. The kitchen feels... oddly empty without Bittle there criticizing its decor, and Jack wonders how Holster's doing now that Justin has left.

"Hey, Jack?" Dex says.

Jack silently prepares himself for whatever is coming next. "Yes?"

"Nursey's sad and I don't know what to do to make him feel better."

For fuck's sake.

"'M okay," Nursey says. He leans his head on Dex's shoulder. "I  _ was _ sad. I'm better now."

Neither of them have gotten water. Jack sighs and fills up a cup for each of them. "Dex, I think Nursey's fine."

"But what if he's not?" Dex asks, and if he tears up next Jack is leaving the kitchen, orders from Shitty be damned. "I don't want him to ever be sad, ever. Never ever ever."

"Drink your water," Jack says. Hopefully this never happens again. He doesn't want to form a Dex Patrol too. Although maybe with Dex around, Nursey won't dance on and fall off any tables, and they can just sit and be maudlin together.

"Ever," Dex repeats for emphasis, and then he drinks his water.

Jack leaves to find Shitty and tell him he is leaving the kegster, going upstairs, and does not wish for his room to be invaded by any more teammates, sad, singing, drunk, or otherwise. He's done his duty for the night, lack of dancing with Eric Bittle notwithstanding.

Bittle probably won't even remember tomorrow.

Despite the fact that Jack really did not want to dance, the idea of Bittle waking up not knowing he asked Jack to dance to Beyoncé feels... odd.

It's almost definitely because of the tight pants he was wearing, which Jack firmly tells himself to stop thinking about immediately, because he's  _ Eric Bittle. _ And Eric Bittle may be warming up to Jack, but that doesn't change how cold he's been to Parson. So his leaving the kegster before dancing with Jack is for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> thanks for reading!!  
> -love, birl<3

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your guesses about who's who in the comments! I've intentionally left the relationships field blank because if I fill it all out now there'll be LOADS of spoilers. But I can promise there will be many, many couples by the end, much like Pride and Prejudice itself.
> 
> So yeah, hit me up with who you think is who! (I've written chapter two, but I'm hoping to get more written than that so I can have a consistent update schedule, and comments motivate me to write like literally nothing else in the world)
> 
> Thanks for reading! (and also thanks to omgdexnursey for cheering me on!)
> 
> -love, birl


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